


Falling Back to Me

by runicmagitek



Series: Tifa Week 2020 [5]
Category: Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997), Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, First Meetings, Injury Recovery, OGC and Remake Compliant, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Starting Over
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:21:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24056650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runicmagitek/pseuds/runicmagitek
Summary: Some customers shot him wayward looks when he grumbled about the atrocities Shinra committed, but Tifa indulged him—coaxed him, even. A smile wasn’t necessary around him; she could be herself.While finding her place in Midgar, Tifa grows close to a favorite regular at the restaurant she waits at.
Relationships: Tifa Lockhart/Barret Wallace
Series: Tifa Week 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1729408
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	Falling Back to Me

**Author's Note:**

> Day 5 of Tifa Week - _“Down here in the atmosphere, garbage and city lights, you’ve gone to save your tired soul. You’ve gone to save their lives.” - Somewhere Out There - Our Lady Peace_

The blinding lights nudged her awake, but the thick scent of bleach sobered her until she coughed. The voices in the room echoed as her surroundings blurred. Tifa lolled her head. This wasn’t Nibelheim. Wherever it was, it didn’t matter when the sharp agony down her sternum burned to the bone.

Several days passed before she stayed awake for more than several hours, let alone sit up in bed. The fluorescent lights stung her eyes and the invasive stench stagnated. All unfamiliar aspects. Zangan remained the single constant in the unknown medical room.

She wished he had stayed.

“You’ll come back?” she asked, staring out a window instead of holding his gaze.

The pause before he spoke said plenty. “I can’t make that promise, Tifa.”

“Then let me come with you.”

“And risk your health? You are not well enough to travel—”

“When I recover, then I can go with you.”

“Tifa, listen.” He rested a hand over her tight fist clutching the blankets. “I’m doing this because I trust you. You’re my strongest student; you survived Nibelheim and I believe you can survive anything, now. But not all my students are as strong as you. They come from broken homes, if any at all. I must see them. Surely you understand that?”

She inhaled deeply, ignoring the tears. “What if you’re wrong and I’m not strong enough?”

He laughed, though the sound was frail and tired. “You won’t let yourself fail. I know that. I hope one day you come to realize that, too.”

Those words resonated in her soul when they said goodbye—more like he said farewell and Tifa silently looked elsewhere. He abandoned Tifa and expected her to thrive in the home of her enemy. He left enough gil for a week, maybe two. The rest was up to her.

And she hated that.

But anger bought her no food or shelter. Mercy died in Midgar years before Tifa showed up. The silver lining she found was in the doctor who treated her, still visiting him every week to examine her recovery. The stitches were due to come out and the antibiotics dwindled. In the lulls between appointments, the doctor assigned her tasks around the block to keep busy and out of trouble. Little things: taking out trash, tidying up the waiting room, and cleaning the outside. By the time her stitches were removed, she found herself as a small-time courier, sometimes taking over the front desk during lunchbreaks.

“Don’t you have anything better to do than hang around here?” the doctor asked her once. “Surely you can get yourself a real job, especially with a pretty face like that.”

Tifa bit the insides of her cheeks and stashed away another intake form. “I don’t have anywhere to go.”

“No?”

“No.”

He sighed. “I know this is tough for you, Tifa, but you’re not the only one who’s fallen on hard times around here.”

She looked over her shoulder, ready to glare a hole through him. The distraught expression overcoming his features made her reconsider.

“I don’t know what life you had before coming to Midgar,” he continued, “but it’s up to you to decide how to live it now. You can be bitter, sure. At least you’re not the only one down here angry about your circumstances. However….”

“What are you trying to get at?” she asked, a mixture of cautious and annoyed.

“I’ve seen too many people rot from the inside out when they held onto that anger. You’re young, Tifa. I’m not going to tell you life will work out if you pick yourself up and try harder, but if you’re able to let go of that negativity? Or at least channel it elsewhere? I promise things will get better. Maybe it won’t be the life you dreamed of, but you can make it yours, yeah?”

Tifa never returned to the clinic after that day. She wandered past the block radius she resigned herself to. Nothing grabbed her attention—garbage heaps and dilapidated buildings sprawled beneath the plate. How was she to discover any joy within the cramped slums?

She did take his advice, though. Perhaps not consciously, but it was her softer features that garnered the attention of a restaurant owner. Tifa passed while he sucked down a cigarette out back. She ignored the inevitable catcalling, though the mention of work slowed her steps.

“Cute girl like you? People will be lining up to have you wait on them! Big tips, too, if you work as good as you look.”

Wrath burned in her being. She yearned to whip around and spew forth every pained thought. Maybe even sink a fist into his grubby face. A small voice—a kinder, yet timid one—reconsidered the backhanded offer. What else was she to do? The streets were no place to sleep and with her savings dried up, her chances of survival dwindled hour by hour.

She reluctantly accepted. The bitterness faded while the owner provided a tour of the rickety establishment—a bar in the back along with a short-order station and an adequate eating area, complete with a dated television, jukebox, and pinball machine. It was a far cry from the cozy tavern at Nibelheim, but the topside hoarded luxury in Midgar. Whatever comforts the slums could muster was good enough.

It turned out that one of the waitresses quit before opening, leaving a vacant spot for Tifa. The owner trained her all of five minutes before the first customer waltzed in. Tifa clutched her notepad and pencil, white-knuckled and sweaty. Working as a tour guide at least instilled some customer service experience in her, but memorizing the menu and juggling tables was all on her.

She wanted to quit after the first night. Lint and crumbs lined her apron pockets more than gil. The crowd proved to be rough with their impatience and ridiculous demands, most of which Tifa fumbled, albeit with a smile. Said smile was what earned her that sparse gil, or so she imagined.

But not everyone was miserable. Tifa chatted with a handful of locals who offered kindness instead of annoyance upon discovering she was new.

“Oh, you’ll get better, sweetie,” an older woman insisted. “Everyone’s got to start somewhere, hmm?”

There was one customer, however, who caught her attention.

She never asked for his name; a grave scowl tightened his face and dissuaded her from asking anything beyond his order. Tifa quietly refilled his water while he glared at the reporters on the television. Something about new reactor initiatives to improve the flow and production of mako. Tifa clenched her jaw at the mention of Shinra.

The man scoffed. “What a buncha bullshit.” He crossed his arms and only then Tifa noticed half of his right arm missing. “They talk about improvements and don’t give a shit about what’s below the plate.”

“Yeah,” Tifa mumbled. “Tell me about it.”

Before she pivoted away, he looked to her. She recognized that glare; she wore the exact expression every day since arriving in Midgar.

“You think this is a joke?” he asked with contained anger. But there was something else there, something softer, yet desperate.

Tifa tilted her head and raised an eyebrow. “Hardly. I’ve seen firsthand what they’re capable of. And I don’t mean reactor improvements.”

His lips quirked. Or maybe the poor lighting tricked her. Either way, he left an impression which lingered. The crowd thinned out, the restaurant locked up, and she wondered if he would return. Someone with a blunt personality was bound to be trouble, but paired with the more endearing patrons, Tifa kept it as a reason to stick with the waitressing gig.

It turned out he was there the next night. He sat in the same corner, eyes always glaring through the television. Some customers shot him wayward looks when he grumbled about the atrocities Shinra committed, but Tifa indulged him—coaxed him, even. A smile wasn’t necessary around him; she could be herself. That proved to warm her heart more so than the tips… though he _did_ always tip her well.

“What’s a girl like you doin’ ‘round here?” he asked her one night.

By then, Tifa brought his stout to him upon arriving. No pad of paper needed, either—simply a yes or no to, “The usual?” His question froze her mid-pour. The chill of the bottle numbing her fingertips wasn’t enough to snap her free.

“What do you mean?” she asked, trying not to come off defensive.

At least he chuckled. “Figured you’d be makin’ a mint off the mucks on topside. Ya know, hostin’ or whatever at some fancy place and not hangin’ out at _this_ joint.”

Tifa shrugged her shoulder and topped off his beer. “I have my reasons.”

“You and me both, girl!” He paused. “You like it down here?” The look she fashioned for him left him roaring with laughter. “Figured as much!”

“And what about you?” Tifa perched a loose fist on her hip. “You like settling down in these parts?”

The amusement died, leaving a grim expression stabbing her heart. “Hardly. Got my reasons for being here.” He jerked his chin at the television. “Gonna make those bastards _pay_ for what they did.”

Tifa gripped the empty bottle, unable to pry herself away from his table. He continued to sit there, arms crossed and eyes locked with yet another news report of the reactor developments. Back when she arrived, she expected headlines of the events in Nibelheim to reach Midgar, but not even the locals knew of Nibelheim’s existence, let alone what happened. The backlogs of newspapers highlighted no such catastrophe. It was but a ghost haunting Tifa.

Looking over her now favorite regular, Tifa regarded his missing forearm from another angle. _What crimes did they commit against you?_ she wondered, but never asked. Tifa resumed her duties, just as he continued to arrive every night for a cold beer and plate of steak and fries.

Taking her revenge dangled well beyond her reach. Every time Shinra made the news, which was hourly on a good day, Tifa balled her hands into fists. How could anyone stay in this forsaken city and be alright with the evil presiding above?

But in her time waitressing, she learned those reasons. Some people were born and raised there, unaware of life outside of the slums. Others used to reside on the upper plate, only to fall on hard times and resign themselves to the slums. Plenty of obstacles prevented folk from moving: money, family, job security, and more. Despite those reasons, people found meaning in the slum life, even if it was getting a homemade meal while chatting with a particular waitress.

Though her waitress days quickly fell behind her. Tifa manned the gas stove when the short-order cook was no-call no-show. Her previous kitchen experience included licking the bowl while her mother baked cookies, grilling sandwiches with too much butter when her father wasn’t looking, and reheating leftovers picked up from the local tavern. Plenty of orders ended up burnt or in the trash, but the customers never said a word while she balanced three plates on each arm after cooking. At least she mastered the menu by then; arriving at that finished product, however, required more effort than waiting tables.

Just when she got the hang of the kitchen—a full month and a half since their cook vanished—Tifa was dragged behind the bar and asked to mix and serve drinks while she was at it.

“Are you kidding me?!” Tifa glared at the owner. “You can’t expect me to do that on top of everything else.”

“No one’s going to care if you’re on the young side behind the bar,” he said.

“That’s not what I meant; how am I supposed to juggle bartending and cooking _and_ waiting tables?”

He barely looked to her, let alone reveal a shred of worry. “You’ll figure it out. You _have_ been for some time.”

Tifa scoffed. “No wonder everyone else left.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You want to keep your job or not?”

“Fine. I’ll do it.” Tifa took one step towards him and rose on her tip-toes—the closest she could get without dragging him to her level. “Just know that the only reason you’re still in business is because of me.”

Bartending proved to be Tifa’s favorite part. The shelves stuffed with bottles intimidated her, initially. To her relief, the regulars chilling at the bar gave plenty of pointers, whether it was which glass to use or how much alcohol to pour—some liked to elaborate on the latter, only to be reprimanded by a purist down the counter. But every drink was a new challenge and she loved the results of her efforts. Each customer smiled when she slid their drink down. What could beat that?

And if someone was dumb enough to ignore her when she said they were cut off, a certain regular was there to literally chuck them out of the establishment.

“The lady said _no_!” he always yelled out the door. “Learn some respect while you’re out there!”

“I could’ve handled that,” Tifa called to him once he returned.

“Tch, you gettin’ paid to be a bouncer, too?”

“Hardly.”

He grinned. “Then let _me_ take out the trash now and then.”

She smiled back, rather liking the way he strutted back to his seat, proud of the small feat he accomplished for her. _I could get used to that,_ Tifa thought.

Then again, it was mostly smiles when she worked—for herself and the clientele. Outside of the hole-in-the-wall restaurant, few found a reason to smile in the slums. Tifa looked forward to her shifts, as tedious as they were. The people kept her coming back. If not for them, perhaps she would be dead in a ditch somewhere.

There no smiles, however, the day she arrived and the doors were locked.

She contemplated breaking a window to climb inside, but the neighbors informed her of the news. Her unsavory boss had equally shady dealings at the Wall Market, which led to a group of hoodlums arriving at his doorstep that morning to drag him away.

“Not sure what he got himself into this time,” the local folk told Tifa. “Maybe it’s debt, maybe it’s another failed con of his. Whatever the case, I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t come back.”

“But what about the restaurant?” Tifa asked, worry coloring her words and expression.

“What about it? There are plenty of places to eat down here. People will find somewhere else to go.”

Not good enough.

Tifa _did_ break a window to slip inside—along with cleaning up the glass shards—but after that? What was she to do?

“Ya mean he’s _gone_?!” her favorite regular exclaimed, torn between laughing and screaming. “That asshole! Serves ‘em right for makin’ you do all the dirty work.”

Tifa struggled to smile, even as the place filled up, per usual. “I guess we’ll have to close down and I’ll find somewhere else to—”

His cackle boomed. The rich timbre filled the room, earning the attention from those at nearby tables.

“Shit, do I hafta spell it out for ya, girl?”

Tifa blinked. “Uh… what’s that?”

He leaned towards her and grinned. “You already run this damn joint. Why not make it _yours_?”

Part of Tifa screamed. Claim responsibility for _this_? The day-to-day tasks burned into her memory, but actually managing a business? Tifa didn’t know the first thing about finances or safety inspections or whatever else was included in owning a restaurant. She barely kept her own life together, never mind one she shared with the general public.

But she scanned the interior and held her breath. Those eavesdropping on the conversation smiled at Tifa. All the people she waited on, cooked for, and listened to… the ones who made her forget she lived in the slums… for every night she spent serving them, they returned the gesture in kind.

“You going to take over, Tifa? I got a son-in-law who’s handy with fixing things if you ever need it.”

“My brother knows someone with access to quality meats and veggies—the good stuff from topside. Let me know if you’re interested and we’ll hook you up.”

“Need any furniture replaced? I make tables and chairs for—”

“My sisters and I clean homes topside. Give us a shout and we’ll help spiff this place up real good—”

“If you need help with any heavy lifting—”

“I used to do some design work up above. If you want some new signage or menus or—”

Every patron chimed in. Each offered a lending hand, varying in proficiencies. Tifa parted her lips to protest, only to stop. The small voice in the back of her head expanded and overwhelmed the toxic threads until all she heard was kindness.

 _It_ _’ll be okay,_ she told herself, smiling and thanking those who were no longer strangers.

* * *

“Thanks for showing up.”

He flashed a grin and puffed up his chest. “Didn’t want ya to think I was leavin’ ya on your own.”

“Not much left to do, though,” Tifa said, craning her head back to watch a slew of young men install the new neon sign above the building. “Unless you want to flip the breaker back on.”

“Nah, you can handle that.”

Her lips quirked. “Wouldn’t mind some company while I clean up.”

“Most wouldn’t want to keep me ‘round for that, but aight.”

She held the door open for him before stepping into the restaurant. No, it wasn’t that anymore. Tifa remodeled the inside as much as one lone girl in the slums could. It didn’t mirror the Nibelheim tavern exactly, but the interior embodied the lived-in coziness. The wooden floors were even, local art and photos adorned the wall, a new pinball machine was installed, and the bar and kitchen were immaculate in comparison to a month ago. It was no longer the shoddy dump of a dive she first worked at; it was a local favorite that welcomed all looking for a comforting meal, a good drink, and even better company.

Furthermore, it was _hers_.

“The hell else ya got left to do in here?” he chuckled out. “Could lick crumbs off these damn floors.”

“Dishwasher still isn’t installed.” Tifa made her way around the bar to hand-wash the remaining glasses. “Need to have everything in order before tomorrow night.”

“Grand reopening,” he said while taking a seat at the counter.

“Yup.”

“You excited?”

Tifa snorted, yet smiled. “More nervous, honestly. What if I mess up? What if it all goes wrong and I wasn’t meant to—”

“Shit, that’s seriously what’s goin’ through that head of yours? You want me to reenact your nights since you showed up? ‘Cause you weren’t exactly slackin’.”

“I know.” Tifa pouted. “It’s just… being on my own and all….”

He extended his hand to rest over hers. Not his good one, but a metal one. She blinked, guilt swelling in her chest; she had been preoccupied and never noticed the addition of the prosthetic. But then he squeezed and she smiled. _New starts for both of us, I guess._

“I get it,” he said. Never had she witnessed him so gentle. “Trust me, I do. Shit ain’t easy, especially in this hellhole, but ya don’t hafta do it all on your own. Ya got people who care and that’s sayin’ somethin’ if ya ask me.”

“It makes me feel weak—”

“ _Weak_?!” There it was—that brash, impulsive air of his. “You spent _how long_ puttin’ up with that asshole who used to run this joint?” He cackled. “At least he _thought_ he was! You coulda run circles ‘round him while doin’ all this—” He waved a hand at their surroundings. “—and then some! Girl, you’re stronger than you think. Ya don’t need to do shit on your own, yeah? People got your back.”

Tifa rolled his words in her head before finding her own. “Do you have my back?”

He glared as if she had wounded him, only to erupt with laughter. “You serious?! ‘Course I do! The hell you think I kept comin’ back every night for? Sure wasn’t for the cookin’.” He paused. Was he… blushing? “Well, not until _you_ took over, anyways. Where ya learn to cook like that?”

Tifa chewed her lip. “Uh… late-night reruns of food competition shows?”

His laughter vibrated in the foundations of the building. Soon, Tifa joined him. She clung to his hand, almost unknowingly, until he squeezed back in response.

“Girl after my own heart! Feel like I need to introduce you to Marlene. She’d love you.”

Tifa cocked her head. “Marlene?”

The blush burned his cheeks. “Oh. Don’t think I mentioned her before, huh?”

“No, don’t think so.”

“She’s uh… my daughter. Can’t walk yet, but she _loves_ watchin’ ya do things. She’s gonna be a troublemaker, that one.”

“Just like her father?”

He held her gaze. She liked the tenderness hidden in those cold eyes, as if it were meant for her and no one else.

“Damn straight,” he murmured.

The notion suddenly hit Tifa and she stifled her amusement. He furrowed his brow.

“Somethin’ funny ‘bout that?”

“No, it’s… I realized all this time, I never got your name, but you give me your daughter’s before—”

“ _What_?!”

Their hands broke away. He bolted out of his seat and stood. Despite his flailing, his face flushed hard enough to ruin whatever imposing demeanor he displayed.

“This whole time?!” he boomed. “We’re chattin’ like old friends and you just go off and _forget_ my name?!”

“You never told me!” Tifa insisted, albeit with a giggle.

“Like hell I did! It was the first week you were here!”

“You expected me to remember that while I was doing the work of four waitresses?”

“You remembered orders!”

“Yeah, after writing them down every night for months. You know how long it took me to remember _the menu_ , of all things? I couldn’t tell you half of the regulars’ names, save for their appearance and orders. Everything else was a blur.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. He tried again several times, always resigning himself to shutting his mouth. Tifa placed a hand over hers to hide her grin.

“Okay, _look_.” He pointed at Tifa. “I’ll give you that. But first, I’ma tell you my name and _you_ best remember it or else I can’t be held responsible for my actions after.”

Tifa snorted. “Alright.”

“Second? _Damn_ , girl, you need to get better with the name thing! Runnin’ your own place? Gotta be on top of that! People stick around for that shit, ya know?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Tifa fidgeted, clasping her hands behind her back. “There’re so many people here, though. Wasn’t like that back home.”

“Shit, tell me ‘bout it.”

“Will you help?”

He raised an eyebrow. “With what?”

“Remembering people’s names?” She bent at the hip and smiled. “I know you haven’t been around to help with the remodeling—”

“Yeah, it’s….” He rubbed the back of his head as the strength in his voice deflated. “Marlene’s been a handful and—”

“It’s alright. Really. But if you want to help, that’s something I’d appreciate.” She paused, then added, “You can bring Marlene if you’d like.”

“ _What_?! To a _bar_?!”

“It’s a _tavern_. There’s a difference.”

He groaned, paced the length of the counter, then paused in front of her. “That’s all you want?”

She straightened up and perched a loose fist on her hip. “For now.”

“Tch, typical. Alright!” He rubbed his good hand on his pants and extended it to her. “Name’s Barret Wallace and _you_ better not forget it this time.”

Tifa restrained the urge to giggle, slipping her hand into his and rather liking the way it fit into his palm. “Tifa Lockhart.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know that—” They shook and Barret winced, then grinned. “ _Damn_ , girl! That’s some grip ya got on you!”

She blinked, unaware of the iron clutch she kept against Barret’s hand. Zangan wasn’t around to train her and thus she kept a routine when possible. Sometimes a night of work substituted exercise. As for restraint? Well… she was still working on it.

“S-sorry.” Tifa retracted her hand. “I didn’t—”

“Yeesh, don’t go apologizin’ for _that_!” He laughed and shook his now sore hand. “Always thought those muscles of yours were for show, but boy was I wrong!”

Warmth flooded her face. _My_ _… what?_ She glanced at her bare arms and stomach—a standard look which promised bigger tips—sporting the lean figure she maintained since her training with Zangan. And Barret’s eyes were on her, admiring said muscles. _And he_ has _been_ _…._ That thought only deepened the red hue in her cheeks.

“Surprised that jerk didn’t hire you as a bouncer!” Barret teased. “You can do that all on your own, just like everything—”

“Hey, Tifa?”

She never noticed the door opening, but the voice snapped her back to reality. Anything for a reprieve from… whatever just happened between her and Barret. “Hey, how’s the sign going?”

“All good.” He gave her a thumbs up. “Just need to flip on the breaker, but you can go see it for yourself outside.”

Tifa smiled and headed around the bar to the front. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Pleasure’s all mine!”

She held the door open for Barret upon exiting. Stale night air greeted her. Hundreds of electronic lights glimmered from the plate above. Soon enough, her new sign would outshine them.

“See that?”

Tifa tilted her head to meet Barret’s gaze. “What?”

A knowing smile graced his rugged features as he jerked his chin to those on the roof. “Locals helpin’ ya out. They gotcha.”

“Yeah.” The sight of them making the finishing touches made her smile, too. “I don’t need to be alone anymore.”

“Damn straight!”

“Hey, Barret?”

“What’s up?”

“Thanks for sticking around.” She teetered from the balls of her feet to her heels. “For making me feel less alone.”

“That’s all? Shit, you’ve cooked for me for how long and all you’re thankful for is me showin’ up?”

“You’d be surprised how much that can help.”

His bewildered amusement simmered to a softness he rarely showed. _Yeah, definitely could get used to that,_ she thought as he patted her upper back.

Whatever else either had to say vanished as neon lights flashed to life. The white fluorescents twisted and curved to write letters—Seventh Heaven. Some letters flickered and others weren’t as bright as they could be, but it was _hers_ and that was all that mattered.

“I like it,” Barret murmured. “Got a nice ring to it, ya know?”

“Yeah,” she agreed, liking the way the white glow highlighted his face and the way his thumb idly stroked her shoulder. She leaned into him, happy he didn’t pull back; he simply held her there. “It does. I like it, too.”


End file.
